Salmon Run
by Shamrock O'Malley
Summary: set 2 years before the 1899 strike, this story is told mainly by a pickpocket who is saved by Racetrack, reminding him of his own past.


Disclaimer:  The story of Salmon first came to me in pre calc.  Strange, I know.  How does one get a Newsies fan fic from math?  Listen to your professor drone on about some French guy named de Fermat who did this or that and think hey, de Fermat sounds like a swell (yes swell) name for a newsie….So while I stole some 16th century math guy's last name, the character Salmon de Fermat is mine!  Not to sound greedy or anything but I would appreciate it if you didn't use him (or any of my other characters) without consulting me first.  The newsies we are all familiar with are a copyright of Disney.  They were generous enough to let me use them because a) they know that I am not making any money off of this b) they would spend more on lawyers and stuff than what they could gain from suing a poor college student and oh yeah, c) I didn't ask if I could.

Author Note:  Set two years before the 1899 strike, this story focuses mainly on the lives of Racetrack Higgins, Jack Kelly, and Spot Conlon and more importantly, their pasts.  I started this story about two years ago and any resemblance to other people real or otherwise is unintentional.

**Salmon Run**

**The True Story of Salmon de Fermat**

_As told to Aisling 'Shamrock' O'Malley_

                Once again I ran from the law.  I weaved my way through the crowded streets hoping to lose the cops behind me.  Their shrill whistles called out alerting the crowd a thief was in their midst.

                A thief, pickpocket, purse cutter, copper stealer, others had many names for me.  I called myself a survivor.  I'd lived on the streets of New York since I was six and at the age of 12 I was an old hand at lifting money from the rich.  Ask any seasoned street kid how he survives and most will say they steal-the rest are lying which is another trait any kid forced to survive on their own becomes skilled at.  I hadn't been caught yet which is more than many can say.  That is why my name became Salmon.  Salmon de Fermat.

                Just like the fish, I am too slippery to hold onto and like the salmon too stubborn to give up.  That is why I had been running those thirteen city blocks without stopping even though my legs felt weak and my lungs burned from the lack of oxygen.  The bulls could chase all they wanted, I was going to survive.  That is when Fate slapped my cocky face.  I tripped.  I felt myself falling to the ground, powerless to stop it, but I never impacted.  A pair of hands grabbed me by the collar of my jacket and yanked me into the building lobby.  Those same hands then grabbed my shoulder and spun me around so we were face to face.

                I could have peed myself with relief on seeing the person those hands belonged to.  A boy only a few years my senior stared at me.  Feeling safer the rush of adrenaline from the chase and 'capture' drained away making me much more aware of my surroundings.  We stood in an old building with music playing somewhere close.  Probably a vaudeville theater.  It was surprisingly chilly in the large room and I pulled my tattered jacket close looking around for an escape route should the boy in front of me be less than friendly.

                He was only a few inches taller than me with blue black hair and dark brown eyes.  His teeth seemed too big for his mouth, like he hadn't grown into them yet and they clutched an unlit cigar.  He wore a white collared shirt with little stripes under a faded brown vest.  Both were a bit large for him.  Navy blue pants, short enough to see the tops of his sturdy work boots finished the outfit.  All were well worn but clean.  A stack of papers with a brown woolen cap on top had been placed near the entrance we had come through.  Obviously this boy was a newsie.

                I often saw them hawking trumped up headlines or causing mischief.  The cops didn't much like them either but the feeling was mutual and no love was lost.  The well-to-do of the city looked as if the newsies would rob them blind as sell them a paper.  In Manhattan a bunch of newsies lived in a lodging house not too far from Newspaper Row.  I envied them sometimes, they seemed so carefree and almost happy, like a big family.  They always had someone there to watch their back.

                Even as I sized him up the newsie was eyeballing me.  I admit I got angry.  I read in his face that what he saw before him, namely me, disgusted him.  I knew I wasn't in any way a looker.  A scrawny kid due to the lack of proper nourishment and on the shorter side of average to boot, what clothes I had on were all I owned.  Calling what I wore clothes was almost lying, threadbare as they were.  The make of them was poor quality and both my jacket and pants had holes worn into them.  I had patches crudely covering other holes and the hem of my pants had ripped so that the bottom edge was jagged over my rough bare feet.  The longer we stared at each other in silence, the angrier I became.  Just as I was ready to tell him where he could stick that pitying look he spoke.

                "I'se guessin' dey's gone."  His accent was Manhattan street with a touch of Italian.

                Normally not slow, it took me a moment to realize he was talking about the cops.  I shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly and tilted my head a bit looking down at his shoes.  I didn't want to start up our staring contest again.  Was it a cue for me to scram or did this kid want to talk a bit?  I hoped the former and took a cautious step towards the door.  I watched the boy for any sign he'd stop me but he just lit his cigar.

                After a few more trial steps, I bunched ready to make a dash for freedom when he decided to speak again.  "Ya don't gotta be scared a me kid.  I ain't gonna hoity a.  I ain't gonna stop youse from leavin' neithah."  An amused tone lingered in his voice like he was watching a clown on the stage instead of me.  I unbunched startled he'd even been watching me.

                "I ain't scared a nobody!  Just cautious."  I explained.  He laughed outright at my bold statement.

                "What do dey call ya kid?"  He asked blowing smoke into the air watching it rise to the rafters.

                "Salmon de Fermat."  I said with pride.  Not every kid had a street name, it was something you earned.

                The newsie spit in his hand then held it out.  "Put 'er dere Salmon, I'se Racetrack Higgins."  I ran my tongue across my top teeth feeling their ridges.  He was offering me a sacred street handshake.  The 'Spitshake' meant friendship.  If I refused to spit into my hand and take his after he'd saved me from the cops, I risked a fight that I would lose.  If I took his offered hand, he had the right to ask questions.  Questions I might not want to answer.

                In the end I grabbed his hand and firmly shook.  When I went to let go, Racetrack wouldn't release my hand.  I looked up from our two interlocked hands dumbfounded.  What was he doing?  A mischievous glint in his eye matched a smirk forming at the corners of his mouth.  I tried to pull away but he held fast.

                "What's da meanin' a dis?"  I screeched in a near panic.  I hated feeling trapped yet here I was, unable to get away from this boy.

                "Why they after ya kid?  You steal?"

                Oh no!  The questions.  "None a yer business.  Let go a me hand!"

                "Just tell me why ya steal."  He was so calm even though I yanked and twisted with all of my might and could see he had to brace himself so as not to fall.  The panicking made me angry but I couldn't calm myself to let the panic subside.  How dare this kid ask me these questions.  He couldn't be so naïve as to believe I _liked being a pickpocket.  I glared at him feeling angry tears wanting to be shed but I blinked them back._

                "Lighten up kid."  He said dropping my hand as if bored with the game.

                As I walked past him to the door I replied, "I don't got time."  Opening the door I saw I was late.  The afternoon sun was casting long shadows from the buildings.  The newsie had other plans yet for me though because he grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.  He lowered his head a bit so we were eye to eye.  His brown eyes seemed to be looking, searching for something in my hazel eyes.  I hoped he hadn't guessed my secret.  I was sick of his games and needed to get back to the alley I lived in.  I turned to leave.

                "Youse know da Newsboy's Lodgin' House on Duane Street?"

                "I'se hoid a it."  Most street kids had.

                "If youse evah in trouble or need some place ta stay, go dere.  Ask for me, Race or da Manhattan leadah Engine.  I'll tell him ta expect ya."

                I couldn't understand why he was offerin' me such a sanctuary.  I mumbled a thanks and walked away without a glance behind me.  I knew I wouldn't be seeing him again.  I didn't need him or anyone.  I was a survivor.


End file.
